Waiting
by tearful-eye
Summary: Tony is in a strange mood, thinking too much again. very, very mild slash


_Nothing of NCIS is mine, only this little Fic._

_I hope my English is okay, because it's not my first language and I hope the Fic is okay too, I'd love to hear if someone reads this and I always love to get any reviews…_

_This is a small, introspective thing, in which Tony's in a strange mood:_

* * *

**WAITING**

* * *

It was quiet. 

It was too quiet.

He took a deep breath and released it slowly; the day had been terrible. Too much stress, too many memories and too much time spent alone. He never liked to be by himself for too long, it made him think and thinking just lead to depressive thoughts. And depressive thoughts led to the bottle.

He stopped drinking. Some time ago.

Some time ago, he also started again.

He released another deep breath and watched the blank window turn to a milky white. Until it cleared again. Like life. Sometimes it was misty and he could not see his next step or where to place his foot. Then it was suddenly clear again, and black and bleak in front of him, and cold.

Then he stopped drinking again. It hadn't solved anything, not really. The hangovers at work had only made his day even more depressive, had brought him Gibbs' wrath. The one thing he didn't want. The one thing he still cared about.

When he'd been a teenager, he always thought that he'd never grow up, and he hadn't in a way. But he'd never thought that he would grow up and be anywhere else than in a mental institution. But he was. He was even remotely successful in his life, if he wasn't counting all the job changes and all those girls. And his mask.

At least he was alive, was working for a good cause; he'd reached something. That was something, wasn't it? Even if he didn't know what that something really was.

And he was in love. Finally in love. And his life wasn't so dark anymore, was it? So why was he standing in an empty hallway, staring out of the window into the night? Why was he still caught in this sticky web of depressive thoughts?

His ribs ached. His head hurt.

He'd been standing too long even if he'd told the nice paramedic that he'd go home and rest, eat something and sleep and take those nice white pills. But he couldn't, not yet. He didn't know what he was waiting for, but he was. Waiting. For something, anything, perhaps for a sign that showed him it was okay to relax, that it was okay to be depressed: For something that told him it was okay to be himself.

He sighed again, letting the one side of his persona come to the surface he almost never showed to other people, the one side he didn't want anyone to know about. The man. The man who could be serious and who had a dark past, a hurting soul and a broken heart.

The one side where he at least still had a heart. Yes, it has been broken over and over again, not necessarily by girl- or boyfriends, but by his parents, his friends, by anyone. By everyone, but one person. The one person he thought could not ever break his heart, not even if he tried to. Because the man had given him so much. He had showed him that life was still there, that there was still light. And that he didn't always need to put on that mask of the teenage boy.

The mask he'd built to protect himself.

He sighed again. The day had really been too long.

He hadn't had moments like that in a long time, he'd been too happy for that. Why was he having them now? What was he still waiting for, why wasn't he going home?

He didn't know. He only breathed again and again and again, watching the window cloud in front of him, watching it clear again. And watching the lights of the city staring back at him.

The case they'd just finished had brought him in contact with a member of the secret service and had brought up too many memories of Kate, of her blood on his face and of the pain of her sudden death; just when they'd come to a new level in their friendship, she'd been taken from him. Just when he'd began to not only trust her to be his backup, but also to trust her with his real self.

The case hadn't only brought him memories of Kate, but also of his childhood. The one he kept trying to erase by just not thinking about it.

And he'd been the lead agent in the case because Gibbs had been in meetings all day. And it hadn't only been that: Abby had had the day off and McGee had stayed at NCIS to do the research. He'd been alone with Ziva out there at the crime scene that was reminding him of his childhood. And he'd begun thinking.

Even the chase the murderers had lead them on hadn't resulted in banishing those thoughts. The fight had been short and the baseball bat to his ribs and the shoe to the back of his head hadn't slowed him down until he'd handcuffed the bastard. He'd done good, and yet…

It was refreshing to think about the case rather than about anything else. Yes, okay, there had been pain. But he was accustomed to physical pain and he didn't really think that pain was only bad anymore. Over long years, physical pain had stopped him from pondering other subjects.

And the drinking.

Until now. Now, he needed other things to feel good, to feel that he wasn't a total failure. That he was loved and wanted.

He needed Gibbs, needed him like he needed oxygen for living.

Even back then, when he'd gotten the job he'd found him attractive, not only in the physical sense but there was something in his aura that made him feel good even if he didn't really believe in auras. The crush he'd had in the beginning had slowly morphed into something stronger, something he was always thinking of when he wasn't trying to drown himself in alcohol.

But even then, he hadn't ever considered to act on those feelings, because he knew that Gibbs couldn't ever want him, not because of being straight, but because he was such a screw-up.

He'd been wrong.

And now, sometimes without even noticing it, Gibbs was turning him into another person. He had more self-confidence than before; even if people thought he already had too much of it. It was his protective mask, the one he'd invested so much time in creating.

The mask that Gibbs was slowly crushing with his loving gaze and his gentle hands. And the head slaps.

Then why was he still standing here?

The two boys they'd found had been the sons of navy officers and they had been killed - beaten to death with fists, brutally; both had been raped. And from what Ducky had told him, they'd bled to death, too weak to call for help.

Why was he thinking of his father now?

'Breathe in. Deep. Breathe out; look how the window is clouding, all misty like that, funny, isn't it? What should I drink tonight? There's still half a bottle of gin somewhere and there should still be some vodka in the fridge . Perhaps if I…'

He breathed deeper again, closing his eyes now and leaning forward until his forehead touched the cold glass. It felt so real against his face that he forgot his thoughts for a moment. Forgot his pain.

What was he still doing here?

"What are you still doing here?"

A gentle voice. He felt his mouth curve into a smile and felt a body moving closer. Hands were touching his shoulders and drawing him back, away from the cold emptiness, against a hard chest.

Arms wrapped around him in a careful hug, a warm breath over his neck, "what are you still doing here; you should be at home, resting."

Lips on his neck and he leaned back into the warmth, letting the hands hold him a little tighter. Then he opened his eyes and smiled for real now. In the dark window, he could see their reflections. They weren't as close to the window as he'd been before. And he could see the look in his lover's eyes, love.

"I was waiting for you, Jethro."

* * *

_fin.

* * *

_


End file.
